


In Lonely Exile Here

by yet_intrepid



Series: fool enough to fight [6]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year, Twelve Days of Fic-mas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 22:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8915941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: As his opponent’s barbed tail swipes at him, Shiro ducks, letting it pass over his head. He drops into a combat roll, careful of the knife he holds, and scrambles to his feet behind the reptile-type alien’s left shoulder.(Make it pretty, Sendak told them all earlier that day. It’s the feast of Rahmuk, and the bets are high.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vinrebelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinrebelle/gifts).



> For a prompt from Martin: "Shiro in prison while the Galra are celebrating and he doesn’t know if he’s missed Christmas."

As his opponent’s barbed tail swipes at him, Shiro ducks, letting it pass over his head. He drops into a combat roll, careful of the knife he holds, and scrambles to his feet behind the reptile-type alien’s left shoulder.

( _Make it pretty_ , Sendak told them all earlier that day. _It’s the feast of Rahmuk, and the bets are high_.)

So Shiro’s been practically dancing through the minute and a half of this fight. It’s hard—he’s still just learning to be efficient in the ring, winning from something more than the luck and instinct that gave him the first fight. Being showy is just an added complication.

( _The emperor himself and all his most favored guests will be watching._ )

Shiro’s opponent spins in time. Her spear swirls in, too, its handle smacking hard against Shiro’s forearm. His knife goes flying.

But there’s no time to lunge for it. The spear’s coming in again, tip first.

Shiro dodges, gets his hands around the pole, and strains. The alien’s taller than he is, but she’s thin. One last push, Shiro thinks, and I can topple her enough to get out of range and go for the knife.

He grits his teeth and brings his weight to bear. The pole of the spear turns in his hands, and as he shoves off, lunging for the knife, a shrill sensor goes off. Fight’s over.

( _Give us good sport_ , Sendak said, _or we’ll take it from you however we may_.)

Shiro pauses, panting, his hand hovering over the knife. When he looks back, there’s blood dripping down his opponent’s arm, and suddenly Shiro can hardly move for the rush of fear that floods him.

This was a first-blood match, and it’s over in—he looks up at the timer—less than three minutes. Not, _not_ good sport.

There’s a halfhearted cheer from the crowd, mixed with a fair bit of grumbling, and the guards come in. Shiro backs off from the knife so they won’t be able to say he threatened them.

“Shit performance, winner,” one of them mutters mockingly as they cuff his hands. “You heard Sendak—Rahmuk is high stakes. Didn’t go far out of your way to please the emperor, did you?”

Shiro just keeps his head down. They clear the arena and go into the lift. The second guard hits a button on the panel by the door; as he does, the level for solitary glows red.

“Sendak has half a mind to give this one away in the exchange,” the first guard puts in again. “As an insult, of course.”

Shiro takes a deep breath, trying to keep steady. He should be worried about being given away—becoming an insulting gift doesn’t sound very safe. But it all feels far away. Even his feet, as he looks down at them, seem like something from another universe.

Exchanges. Holidays. God, has he missed Christmas?

There’s no way to know how long it’s been since Kerberos—Shiro’s pretty sure it hasn’t been more than a week or so since the Holts were sent away, but before that? How long were they with the druids? What time of year is it on Earth?

A deep ache swells in his chest. Lying on the couch in a warm sweater, or blinking at the sun against snow, or the goddamn terrible cookies Keith made before break once, the ones with the baking powder left out—he tries to push it away, all the warmth and light and comfort he can never have again, all the glowing memories that remind him he wasn’t always a prisoner.

People were nice, he thinks, as the guards turn past rows of cells and push him into their break room, where someone who lost an earlier fight is already tied up. People were—some of them were jerks, but he had always taken it for granted, that he could smile at a retail worker or that a classmate would hold the door for him. That no one hit him, and now he can hardly go two days without some new bruise. Earth—it was shitty, sometimes; there were places it was really bad. But Shiro misses it all the same, and when he closes his eyes against the sting of the tightening ropes, he wonders why he ever sought the stars when he had, already, the sparkle of white lights against evergreen boughs.


End file.
